


Knowledge of Good, Bought Dear

by InfiniteCalm



Series: Human Survival [2]
Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Coming Out, Devon - Freeform, Engagement Party, Families of Choice, Family, Grief, Growing Up, Is hard sometimes, London, Love, M/M, aftermath of war, being in love, but not for oliver or percy, molly weasley is a parent doing her best, percy is also trying
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-08-25
Updated: 2018-08-25
Packaged: 2019-07-02 03:33:24
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,126
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15788097
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/InfiniteCalm/pseuds/InfiniteCalm
Summary: Five years after the war, there are still public- and personal- battles to fight. But things will be OK, probably.





	Knowledge of Good, Bought Dear

**Author's Note:**

> it's been 14 months but i now have a sequel 1/6th the length of the original. I was blown away by the reaction to the first, thank you so much everyone i love u. (no. 1 in this series, check it out first b4 this one, but hey i am not the boss of u so u can do whatever). Some points here:  
> 1\. I have been working on this for 5 months and now i want to burn it. it is unbetad and so it shall stay.  
> 2\. The Weasleys are something I have a real problem with in the book. Poor, many children,live on a farm, red-heads. HMMMMM. So I have fixed this by actually just making Mrs Weasley actually Irish. l don't actually think this fixes anything tbh but it makes me happier.  
> 3\. This was mostly written after our big referendum bonanza in may and has changed quite a bit since then. I just ripped off my own emotions and processed them that way. There was tons more to this but it was very boring for everyone not me. Maybe I'll post it someday?  
> 4\. Solidarity to Argentina.

There aren’t many pubs Oliver can get to without a whole big thing, these days. Or, that’s not true- there are plenty of pubs he can go and get a quiet drink in. But getting to pubs he actually wants to go to is a different matter, and so it takes them a while to decide and work out a plan. But then it’s done, and they have a while to go home and get ready to go out. Oliver heads home ready to take a nap. They’re celebrating the passing of a new constitution. It’s kind of a big deal.

Alicia is leaving. And he shouldn’t be sad about it, but he is. She’s been wanting to get out of here since she was 14. But still. After all this, it’ll be like losing a sister. Even though she’s only going to Bilbao, and not- like, dying. Going to study, no less. She’ll come back Dr. Spinnet- fancy.

Percy seems delighted for her, when he shares the news. Typical of him- hears the words “full scholarship” and “finally getting a chance to do what she’s always wanted” and ignores how Oliver might feel about this.

Because it’s not important, how Oliver feels, or at least it’s not the most important thing. Yes. He knows.

But Percy does say that he’ll miss her, which is sweet of him.

“My mother says well done on that piece, by the way.” Percy says, as Oliver takes off his shoes to lie on the sofa. “She enjoyed it a lot.”

“What did they say about the photo of you?”

“Nothing. I did write part of the document. They probably assumed that I was happy about that bit passing. I mean, I was, but it wasn’t my first thought.”

“It wasn’t?”

“Of course not, love.”

Percy is clanging pots and pans around in the kitchen, dressed informally in jeans and a checkered shirt, which is what Oliver wears to fancy work events. One of his socks has a hole in it that he hasn’t darned yet. His hair is curly today. When Oliver left, he was still asleep, turning up at the stage only for the official announcement. Catching up on missed sleep; maybe a good idea.

“What if they had guessed?”

“They wouldn’t. If they haven’t after all this then they never will.”

“But if they had, would you be honest with them?”

“Oliver, you know it’s not easy, not with my family. They’re not like yours.”

“Jesus, Percy.” Oliver says. He sits up on the sofa. They’ve had more rows about this issue than everything else combined in the last five years, and he’s fed up of it. It’s not a difficult concept to understand. When you do this it hurts me. “Would you- I know you don’t really get on. But still, they won’t throw you out.”

“No. That’s not what I’m worried about.”

“What is it, then? We talk and talk in circles and you never tell me anything, and I can’t bear this anymore, Percy, I just can’t take it. I feel so alone here.”

“Ollie.” Percy says, coming out of the kitchen, drying his hands with a tea-towel. His sleeves are rolled up, and his voice is quiet. “I know. I know. I am sorry.”

“Please tell me why, because it can’t be easy for you, either. You change when you go and talk to them. It’s not nice to be there with you sometimes.”

“If you felt that way, why didn’t you say anything?”

“I have said things.” Oliver says. “It’s not important. We said we’d talk about it after the vote, and it’s after the vote now.”

“We’re exhausted. Now’s not a good time to talk about this.”

Percy is wringing his hands. Any minute now, he’ll start pacing the floor, going from the kitchen to the big front window, to the sofa, and then back to the kitchen. Oliver says nothing. There’s nothing here. He loves him.

“Why won’t you tell them, Perce?” Oliver asks, finally. “They’ll still love you. They’re not like Alicia’s mother. They won’t throw you out.”

“I know. But I’ve already let them down enough.” Percy says. “I don’t- or…”

“This won’t be letting them down.”

“I know, I know.”

“Do you feel like you might be?”

Percy, who has indeed started walking around the flat, stops in his tracks, turns his face to the window. Turns back to Oliver, opens his mouth, says nothing.

“Would you hate me?” He asks.

“If you said yes?”

“I don’t want to be ashamed anymore.” Percy says. “Why am I ashamed? After this, after everything I’ve said, I don’t understand why I’m still ashamed.”

The shame comes into you sometime in your late childhood and pounces on you in your early teens and it doesn’t let you go. It sinks in deep, into your bones, and you’ll never erase it entirely. And every article and every slur, every debate on who you should tell and when, it sits, oily, on top of you. It’s easy not to be governed by it, but it’s impossible to escape completely, and now the weight of it may as well be doubling Percy over. Oliver doesn’t feel it as acutely as Percy does, never went through the emotional wringer in quite the same way. Looking at him now, he’s grateful.

“It’s OK to be afraid, Perce,” Oliver says. “I know I only told people because I thought I was going to die within the year.”

That’s too much. The War is still here, in the room with them, and it’s as if the beautiful oak floor they chose together will splinter and send them plummeting back to it. And he can’t take it. Percy starts, propelled across the room, vision blurred, lump in his throat. Oliver reaches out his arms. There’s no escaping these leaden feelings. The pain of opening his heart like this has been a constant of varying intensity. Sometimes he can’t take it. He reaches the couch and sits beside Oliver, leans his forehead against his shoulder. Oliver feels the tension in Percy’s back, the small shakes through his limbs. He smells showered.

“You’re not ashamed of me, are you?” He asks. Selfish, selfish, but the thought is there. He is momentarily paralyzed, terrified of the answer.

“Oliver, no.” Percy says. “Darling. Ollie. Look at me.”

Oliver looks up.

“You’re the best thing about me.” Percy says. “The fact that- I love you, that you see something in me to love- how could I be ashamed of you? No, this is- it’s a me thing. Sorry that it’s hurting you.”

“It’s OK.” Oliver says. He breaths Percy’s shoulder in, rubs his back. “I can’t hang on in secret forever. But if you need a bit more time, then take it.”

“We’re going to Oscar’s tonight, aren’t we? If you want, we- we don’t have to hide. In public. I’ll tell my parents as soon as I can.”

Oliver kisses him.

“Are you crying?” Percy asks, sounding a little like his usual self.

“I am so happy that I think I am going to _die._ ” Oliver says, and he is crying. “And I really miss my Dad. I love you, my absolute _darling._ ”

“I love you too.”

“It’s been a long five years.”

“But it’s over now. It’s over now, Ollie. Whatever happens after this, it’s going to be different.”

Usually that’s a load of shit; usually things don’t happen that way, nothing changes, things change their names and their faces, the spokespeople get younger, and maybe the terms and names get mixed around. Milk stays the same price. After the war they thought things would be better than before, but it turns out that winning one war doesn’t magically fix things- you still have to work- and that’s the usual way of things. You bring your trauma with you, and usually it perpetuates itself, and so you’ll have people living with this war and their shame well into the future.

And yet.

Today there has been a clean break with the pain of the past. Today we are new. Memories of the past to drive you forward. But today the briars have been stretched too far and have let us go, and as we lie here, potential is building. More compassion, more joy, more love, more life! It’s all possible now. Today we throw away the last-century mindset. Today we wake up to a strength that is external and internal. We are legitimate. The toxicity in our bones is less; it is a residue.

“We got through it.”

“Told you we would.”

Oscar’s, that evening: Oliver hasn’t worn his smile for this long since the first time he played in a professional quidditch match. Every so often, Percy will kiss his cheek; Oliver leaves his hand on Percy’s knee for extended periods of time. They work out a way of dancing, ungainly and unattractive, probably: Oliver feels like his blood is pure gold. Katie starts dancing on tables. Anthony and Blaise are conspicuous by their absence for quite a while. Alicia has brought a potential girlfriend, who speaks very little English. She seems sweet. Angelina pops in for a second- Percy doesn’t drop his hand from Oliver’s shoulder, but she doesn’t see anyway, and they drink a lot and spend a lot.

Katie catches Oliver as he stumbles up to go to the toilet.

“Oliver. The one man I trust. The only one!” She says, unsteady on her own feet.

“Katie. Katie. The best- Katie, you’re. The best. You know? The best. Love you.”

“How much have you had?”

“One! Well. Three. That’s all. No tolerance. I’m very ill. You know. Chronic and dangerous. First drink in long- a long time. But. Katie! What’s up?”

 “Percy. He’s being- he’s grown up, for once. Being an adult. It’s nice. I’m happy for you. Is this a- you know, what’s the- a forever thing, or just tonight?”

“Forever.” Oliver says, catching hold of a bar stool and leaning his head down on her shoulder for a second. “Forever.”

“Could never work out what you saw.”

“He helps me. With the- what do you call it. Gets me through the day. When I’m sad. I- without him I don’t try to do anything. And- Katie. Katie.”

“What?”

“The sex is. Amazing.”

Katie laughs so loudly that several other, less inebriated patrons turn to look at her, but she doesn’t care, and keeps laughing. He loves her _so much._

The entire party seems to end up at Oliver and Percy’s flat instead of to their own places. Oliver wakes up the next morning fully clothed, in bed with all of his coworkers, lying on his boyfriend’s stomach. And he feels OK.

-

Percy’s parents are throwing a small family get together, because Ron and Hermione are now engaged to be married. They tell him this well in advance; he makes space in his calendar to head down to Devon, and begins to worry about what he’s going to do. He’d prefer to have Oliver there, but Oliver’s busy that weekend, possibly going undercover (not that Percy should know that) and so he’ll be alone.  

Alone, at home, for a family celebration. Well. It won’t kill him.

It’s an overcast Saturday in August when he apparates to his parents’ drive, brambles heavy with blackberries. He’s timed it carefully so that he’ll arrive a little after everyone else; he doesn’t want to have to deal with his parents too closely today. He walks up the path, hesitates before knocking, like he always does.

His mother answers the door. Her smile is broad and delighted when she sees that it’s him, like it always is. She gathers him up in her arms and squeezes him tightly, and he hugs her back; it takes him a minute to get settled in, to steel himself for the next few hours.

But it’s not so bad. It’s never as bad as he thinks it’s going to be. Hermione is more relaxed here than she has been for a while, and Ron still looks like somebody hit him on the head, gazing at her and smiling, dopily. Percy thinks that it’s nice. He isn’t even that jealous, and he thought he would be. He’s happy for his brother, and happy for his- friend? Work acquaintance? And so the dinner passes easily, and the game of quidditch everyone plays afterwards looks like fun. He watches occasionally from the window in the kitchen, where he is helping his mother prepare a blackberry crumble. He remembers going out with Bill and Charlie to pick blackberries in the weeks before Molly made them start back at their spellings and tables. They had a fight with the berries once, and stained their clothes, and even the toughest spells Molly knew never really removed the marks, although you would have to know to look for them. Percy had not been the instigator of the fight, but he had only been five at the time; still, the feelings of shame and anger at himself during her dressing-down had not been easy to deal with. But he remembers the fight more clearly the more he gets older. It had been fun.

Now, though, he crumbles the butter with the flour and the sugar as his mother stews the early apples, and he feels the words he needs to say as if they were tangible, in his mouth, ready to spill out at any moment. Now that he’s made his mind up, it is difficult to continue waiting, but he must; this desert isn’t for him. He will not steal anyone else’s thunder, or at least, he will not steal it today.

They go to bed late, and he lies in bed. He misses Oliver, although he does not have memories or context for Oliver here. He feels his absence keenly. There’s nothing beside him where there should be heat and breath, and it’s a funny kind of ache when he realizes he can roll over on his side without disturbing anyone.

But for all the strangeness of an empty bed, there are worse pains. He misses Fred, feels grief come back down, fill up the places it gouged out for itself in his throat, stomach, legs. It’s nearly unbelievable, nearly unbearable, how fresh the loss seems sometimes, and he wonders how the wedding will be. There are hundreds of families who feel the same way- some people have the gall to feel sorry for those who lost on the other side, but he isn’t there yet, and won’t be for years. If at all. They killed so many things, those bastards, his good name and Oliver’s health, and they took his brother from them. They broke his family one way and then the other. And it had been a good family. It had worked so well.

He wonders if he's doing the right thing. It's difficult enough having this, the loss that coats this house like oil over water. He wonders if telling them will fix anything, or if he’s expecting too much. The easy symmetricity of his brothers will never be restored. He will never feel whole again. The idea that having Oliver present at family gatherings would somehow make that better- it’s ridiculous. Why even try? And yet if he doesn’t try he won’t be able to hang on to Oliver, and that- it wouldn’t kill him, but Percy is under few illusions. He functions better with Oliver than he ever could without him.

 But he’s had a long day; and eventually, he sinks into a deep sleep, like a sponge sinking into water.

He wakes up unusually early, and brings his briefcase down to the breakfast table. He's expecting to be alone- the clock on the wall says that it’s just after 7 AM, so he is surprised to find his mother already in the kitchen, ensconced in the corner chair. She has her hands clasped around a mug of tea, and is staring out the window above the sink.

“Good morning,” Percy says, stooping to kiss her cheek. “Sleep well?”

“Yes, thanks, pet,” Molly says. “Looks like it’s going to be a scorcher.”

“Again?” Percy says. The Summer’s been ridiculous so far, heatwaves upon heatwaves, and gorse fires up the Scottish Highlands. He’s more freckled than he’s ever been before. It’s fashionable to say that London has become unbearable, but secretly Percy adores the strange nature of a city hotter than it’s ever been- businessmen in shirtsleeves, teenagers in all the parks, guitars and the smell of illegal drugs. He loves the blurring effect of heat rising off pavements. Molly, he can see, is unhappy with the way the sun has bleached the grass.

Yesterday’s resolve has disappeared. He can’t say it now, doesn’t want to say it.

Molly heaves herself to her feet and goes to the front of the house, coming back with the papers. Percy begins to make himself coffee before starting in on work. He can’t make his hands do quite what he wants them to, the spoon clinking against the side of the mug. He sits down and opens the case, pulling out the revisions to the regulations surrounding the proper and safe maintenance of floo-enabled fireplaces in public places- a flashy project he’s been hankering after for years.

“Ah, stop that.” Molly says, giving his hand a weak slap. “No work. Not before noon. Here, we’ve the paper.” She separates the sections out from each other, and takes the main one. Percy takes the Life and Style, opens it up to find that it’s the men’s fashion edition- bliss- and settles into a chair at the table to read it in full comfort.

Percy reaches for Life and Style on Sundays as quickly Oliver as reaches for the Sports section. They leave the News, unread, until the end of the day; when they read the op-eds, get annoyed, lie around until bedtime. Percy adores Sunday s with Oliver, and regrets missing this one.

 “Oh, sorry, love.” Molly says. “Didn’t even think. Here, you take the news- you don’t need to read that rubbish.”

 “Actually, Mum, there’s something I should probably tell you.”

She has given up asking after girlfriends. She no longer comments about his radical friends. He’s been living with Oliver Wood, Well Known Gay Man, for four years. His cloaks are always new season. Part of him thinks, she must know, she must know, she must.

“Hmm?” She says, looking up at him, soft in her old purple dressing gown, hair up in the ponytail she’s always worn it in, a bit greyer, but the same. He tea is beside her. He bought her that mug for Mother’s Day when he was twelve or thirteen.

He’s planned out the words, so why are they sticking in his throat?

“I’m gay,” he says, and the table swims slightly when he hears those words sail out into the kitchen. He’s twenty-seven. It’s about time, he tells himself. The ensuing silence feels like it lasts a long time, but it probably doesn’t. He stares at the worn grain of the wood, and tries not to cry.

“Percy, darling. Look at me.” Molly says. Her voice is soft but he can’t work out the tone. Disappointed? He hopes she won’t say that she always knew, or that it was obvious from the start. He forces his head up, his eyes to meet hers. She’s not smiling.

“It’s not what I expected to hear, to be honest. I was expecting news about a promotion.”

“Oh. Sorry.” Percy says, suddenly desperate. “I’m sorry, Mum.”

“Oh, no, love. Don’t apologise. You’re alright, pet.” She squeezes her eyes shut for a minute and she’s a bit teary when she opens them up again. “I’d say things’ll start making a bit more sense, now.”

Percy says nothing, waiting for an action, a word, to tell him what to do next.

“Come here.” She opens her arms up, and he goes to her, and they embrace. She’s always been good at hugs, and he feels he arms, and the warmth of them. “You and Oliver, then, are you two… I don’t know the words for this kind of thing, darling.”

“He’s my partner,” Percy says, and he nearly does cry then, telling his mother that, freely, in their kitchen. “Yeah.”

“Ah.” She says. She releases him, keeps a hold of his elbows, and now there is a smile on her face. “I’m. It takes some getting used to, darling. Are you happy?”

What a question. But he knows the answer she wants.

“Very.” He says. She nods, filing that away.

“It’s funny,” She says. “As a parent- we had to, I had to make decisions, as we went along, and ye were all so different from each other. Percy, darling, if I ever made you feel like you couldn’t talk, that we might be angry with you, please, that was our mistake.”

“Oh, no, Mum.” Percy replies. “It wasn’t you.”

Or maybe it was, a bit. But then, Percy knows with a certainty as sure as stone that they never did anything but their best, and what more could he have asked of them?

“Well, anyway. I don’t have a leg to stand on,” she says. “I married a Protestant, after all. Oh, speak of the Devil.”

Arthur walks into the kitchen, and as usual, the atmosphere changes.

 “Morning,” He says. “Can I get some of this coffee?”

“Sure,” Percy says. He steps apart from his mother and takes over from his father, refills his own mug and adds milk to his father’s, no sugar. There’s an uneasy silence. Percy is the only one of all his brothers and sisters that kills conversation like this.

“What’s all this, then?” Arthur asks. He already sounds impatient. Percy’s just told his mother, it went fine, he can do it again- and yet he quails at that tone of voice, and he feels like a small child again. It’s so stupid, how immature he is here, whereas when he’s in London- best not get into it.

“You should have told everyone all at once, dear,” Molly says, prompting him. He considered that, but he didn’t want to be a complete cliché- and he never has news to share, may as well dole it out.

“Dad, I’m gay.” He says. This time he holds his father’s gaze, and does not miss the initial reaction- shock, dismay- just as he’d feared- but his father quickly schools his expression.

“That so,” He says.

“Arthur,” Molly scolds. She meets his eye, meaningfully.

“I’m living with Oliver Wood.” Percy says.

“I knew that much- oh.” Arthur says, breaking off when he realiszes in what sense Percy means the _living with_ part of the phrase. “Well. Alright, son. Just- keep your head down at work, yeah?”

Oh God, does that sting.

“It’s not as if I turn up in full drag,” Percy says. “I do keep my head down, as you know, you can ask anyone, I turn myself off when I go into work.”

“Percy,” Molly says. It’s a warning, and maybe a small attempt to comfort him- and indeed he hadn’t wanted to get so deep, so quickly. The last thing anyone wants is another row.

“Sorry.” He mutters. He turns to go up the stairs- and by all metrics, it hasn’t gone badly- it’s gone well, phenomenally well, compared to some of their friends. But was it so much to ask, some interest in the life he’s built up for himself?

“Percy.” Arthur says, and Percy turns to face him, bracing himself. “I’m sorry. It was a brave thing, to tell us.”

He gets bored of telling them one by one after that, and drops the bombshell at breakfast, when there’s a slight lull in conversation. He doesn’t miss his father’s flinch, but neither does he miss the immediate noise from his siblings and their girlfriends.

“It is obvious, no?” Fleur says, narrowing her eyes slightly. “The only one to come to my gallery opening and like it. And the clothes! And, of course, he is living with Oliver Wood!”

“Oh my God,” Charlie says. “He’s been living with Oliver Wood. You’re Oliver wood’s mystery boyfriend. Well, I never. Did he convince you after you moved in, then? He’d convince me, I’ll be honest.”

“I don’t know what you mean by “convince”, Charlie,” Percy says. “And no. We’ve been together since school, actually.”

“That’s ten years!” Ron says. “Ten years? Fleur, what’s yours and Bill’s anniversary this year?”

“Eight,” Fleur says, weary.

“You’ve been going out with our Quidditch captain for ten years and you never told any of us.” Ron says. George laughs out loud.

“Worst thing you ever did to Fred was not let us know sooner, mate,” He says. “Jesus, we always thought you were incapable of hiding anything.”

“No wonder you were so eager for the ref to pass,” Hermione says.

“Hermione, I did write part of that constitution, I wanted it to pass for more than just this.”

“Yeah, but not the good bits,” Ginny points out. “Your bits, nobody cared about.”

“There’d be no constitution without- you know what, never mind. I can’t get back into the referendum again.”

They start shouting at each other about the importance of the upcoming elections, and if it’s a fair system or not, leaving their breakfasts to get cold, and Percy slips away for a breath of fresh air. He sits on the front step, leans against the door and reflects that if Oliver were here, he would be on his third cigarette. He can picture it. Maybe, the next one of these, Oliver’ll be here, the same as Harry and Fleur and Hermione are.

The door opens, sending him backwards. Bill laughs, and Percy looks up, shielding his face from the sun.

“So you told them.” He says. “I was wondering when you would.”

“Oh?”

“Yeah.” Bill says, settling down beside him. “Yeah, Percy.”

“Am I that- obvious?” He asks, with a sinking feeling. “I try not to be. Nobody’s ever mentioned it before!”

“Not at all. Seriously- stop panicking. It’s just- well, I saw you at Oscar’s, the night of the ref. Fleur left her bag at the bar in the afternoon, and I went to get it and saw you and Oliver doing that weird dance.”

“Oliver has RCS,” Percy says, automatically. He thinks about how to respond. “I suppose I should be more careful. Sorry.”

“Jesus, Percy, you were at Oscar’s. I’m the one who shouldn’t have been there.” Bill says. “And don’t be stupid. Oliver’s a nice bloke. Well, he was nice when he was 14, and he’s a good reporter. You looked really happy, Percy.”

Percy remembers that night. He thought that he might die, on the way home, he was so full.

“I am,” he says.

-

 There isn’t much to say, after that, and he goes home. Oliver is still at his mother’s, and Percy has a rare hour alone.

He sinks down onto the sofa and takes a deep breath in. He’s tired; from this morning and the sleepless night before, from the heavy weeks in work, the long months without holidays, Oliver’s health. It’s warm, sun shining into the flat, and he’s drowsy.

The wood of their floor is firm and golden. He lies back and lets his fingers graze the varnished surface, staring at the ceiling.

He thought that he had hope, before the referendum; but he sees now that what he had then was a cold thing, a poor copy, of what he has now. It feels, finally, like he can relax for a second and stop watching his back.

When he was young, he loved Oliver so ferociously that no matter how close he got, it was never close enough, he never felt satisfied, he needed more than what was possible to give and they spent days together like that, and days apart, chomping at the bit to be back together; and that was agonizing but good, the ache was painful and moreish, poking at wisdom teeth coming through. Days diffracted and diffuse, separate and together. He thinks, if everything had not been so hidden, they would have been- he doesn’t know. There was a war about to break. And it’s not as if they can go walking down Diagon Alley hand in hand even now. But maybe; now that his family know, he feels, somehow, stronger.

There is a power that most people don’t know they have. They wake up and go to work and come home and they don’t realize the sheer force they use, moving through the world. But then, why would they, they roll along in the grooves that everyone else seems to, without lifting their eyes to see them. Percy does not fit into those grooves, and never did. He has stopped wanting to, and there’s a different kind of power there, a freedom he didn’t think would ever be his, and—he’ll say it again, although it’s a cliché by now, worn out and cheesy- there’s a power of a raw and real sort in the love he gives and receives.

A power in who you are and who you live for, darling, and what can you ask more than that? It’s difficult to love others when you’re not sure how much they really love you back, if they love the person you are, or the person that they have decided you should be- his father, perhaps, his father has lost some regard for him- love, even parental, is always conditional. The risk you take is in the living. Sometimes people will love you less, will be less understanding, make less of an effort, than he will, and that will be hard.

But he will try to keep loving his family and his friends and the people that fought in the war, even if they are silent for him- not to say that he won’t challenge that silence, of course, that’s another form of loving- but even if he gives more than he gets, you’ve got to be brave about that, and you’ve got to know beforehand, but it’s possible. . How do you stop wanting to be like everyone else, desiring to be part of the society that created you? There aren’t many things stronger than that.

All this, when he was 13, he wouldn’t have thought he could have. You carry yourself with you. And now, look! Look at where you are. Look at all this. Look at what was possible, and what is now possible. There are more roads leading out from this moment than you could ever see.

Choose one.

Drive.

 


End file.
